Summer Storms
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: "She is today," whispers Cole, wide-eyed. "The close of spring in Skyhold, summer opening like a sweet-scented blossom." / But summer doesn't last forever, and Cole can't bear to see the winter come. Time waits for one man, but not his dearest friend. Extended explanation of pairings within. T for strong suggestive themes. I do not own Dragon Age or the cover art.


_Before we begin, you should know four things: firstly, I've never written anything for Dragon Age before and still haven't beaten Inquisition, so I apologize in advance if I got anything wrong either chronologically or characterization-wise;_

 _Secondly, Cullen/F!Trevelyan is secondary to the plot;_

 _Thirdly, I am operating under the assumption that human!Cole is still immortal and does not have the same biological needs as other humans, even though there is little to no evidence either for or against this in canon;_

 _And fourthly (perhaps most importantly),_ _I consider this story an exercise in writing Cole's opinions of and reactions to love more than a portrayal of a plausible relationship. I don't ship Cole with anyone, this OC included, but I had to mark it as such due to the content.  
_

* * *

Celebrations, as it turns out, are just like wars.

It's true that the line is a little blurrier when The Iron Bull is there. But even without his contributions, there's a lot of commotion—complete chaos, if not quite so many casualties. Then the dusk deepens and everyone drops off, one by one, until they've all fallen into the Fade… except Cole.

Being human is _hard_ ; it makes his heart so heavy that he doesn't dare to dream. His purpose is of paramount importance; peace perpetuates a persistent problem. Where will he go? What will he do? Cole shivers in the chilly evening; he needs somewhere solid to stay, and soon. But sleep overtakes him suddenly, for the first time, and all is still.

Morning warms the mountains, sunlight seeping slowly up the slopes. Cole awakens to the airy dirge of dawn, dreading the day to come even as he reclaims his restless consciousness. Will they keep him? The question echoes silently in the emptiness, filled with frigid fear.

It's the first time Cole has ever been afraid of anything. He's never needed to _belong_ before; he could enter everyone's hearts with ease enough that he was never lonely. Now they're all like locked doors; he can only listen at the keyhole. His own pulse pounds too loudly in his ears for him to hear the others.

Cole frowns and fidgets and curls up, clamping his hands over his ears, muscles humming. He would wish himself into the Inquisitor's quarters, but he is bound to his body; walking is the only way now. And besides, from this distance, Cole can't feel whether she's with anyone else. It's better to be cautious.

Quiet steps carry him to her room; the Inquisitor is alone, and awake. He tentatively raises his fist to knock at her door, but it opens, and he drops his hand. She raises her eyebrows, a gesture Cole recognizes as surprise.

"Good morning," she says, and the pleasantries perplex him as usual—a remark, a wish, or farewell. "Do you need something?" Her voice is somewhat strained; impatient images flash through his head like lightning, and he swallows an observation. There are more important things to talk about than whatever the Inquisitor's intention is.

"Can I stay? With you?" he asks softly; his words are hushed, hidden in a hissing exhalation. His voice is timid, tremulous, weighted with worry. This is the only place he knows well, and the only place he is known at all. Here, he belongs. Here, he is _real_.

The Inquisitor examines him closely. "Where else would you go?" she asks, and Cole opens his mouth to say he doesn't _know_ , but she laughs before he can speak. "Of course you can stay with the Inquisition," she tells him more gently, and he feels himself smiling. "We'd be glad to have you. Or at least, _I_ would."

Cole bows his head and steps aside to let the Inquisitor pass, his throat too tight to let thanks through. His eyes burn, and fill with warm and welcome water. They are tears, he realizes; not because he has been abandoned, but because he has a home.

* * *

Several seasons travel swiftly by, but something seems strange.

It starts with a feeling like freezing instead of flowing. Cole sees the river rushing on eternally in everyone's eyes, but when he stares into the motionless mirror and brushes back blonde hair to meet his bright blue gaze, it is icy and still. No water wends its winding way within that wintry wasteland.

Someday that river will wrinkle skin and whiten hair; someday, it will bear the others out to sea. Cole can't go with them until the snow melts, and he wonders whether the thaw will ever come. But, however frustrating, this unwelcome winter is just a feeling, not a fact: he'll worry once the years fly further.

Until then, Cole waits, watching all his allies leave in pursuit of other people or purposes or places. But the two remaining advisors and the Inquisitor stay at Skyhold, so he is not lonely. Even though they seldom speak with him, they teach him how to be human.

Cole feels his own feelings more fully, emptier of empathy, but when his heart is open, he still listens to his fellows for the sake of learning. He reaches for their hurt and happiness, pain and pleasure, eagerly examining each emotion drifting his way. Yet he still does not understand how the source and the solution of such strife can combine to create such a beautiful braid. Could that be love? Cole has never felt it before, nor does he know its nature. He recognizes only its results.

The Inquisitor and the Commander do not openly display their desire, but Cole can see the glow in their gazes when they think no one's watching, smoldering like stars among the shadows until they finally make their escape. He follows in secret, sitting outside and listening, focusing, striving to understand.

It's the same every time, with everyone. Love's alluring little sister, passion, beats boldly in the blood—mischievous, mysterious, magnetic—pulling them close until they can be no closer, one within the other. Skin skids and slides; hips roll; backs bend. Breath comes in hot hisses that hitch in the throat, soft and sibilant and… _sacred_ ; in and out, like the motion where they meet. Then it's complete with the call of a name and they separate, slick with sweat: two bodies, two beings.

Until there are three.

* * *

Cole smiles at the Inquisitor, sensing a surprise stirring inside her, a seedling stretching down towards earthly sky. Neither it nor its mother is aware it's alive yet, and he won't be the one to tell them. Everyone will see for themselves once the sickness starts.

None of them notice what they should, at least at first. The few who know see scandal in the beginning, even the the Inquisitor and her Commander, because they haven't yet said the words that will wed them. But they both _want_ to say them, so they plan another party, a union and reunion on a hazy horizon.

It happens soon, before her belly swells significantly, so no one can see her sin. Solas has disappeared, but the rest of the company comes; even the Divine deigns to descend, personally presiding over the ritual. Cole's allies have aged, but are not yet altered; they're as affably antagonistic as always.

The ceremony is sung, sweet and solemn sentences exchanged in the sight of something superior, and then the celebration begins. Cullen carries his wife to their quarters, no longer hers alone, and Cole knows without seeing, without sensing, that her winter-white gown will lie on the floor before long; he has no need to listen tonight.

Eating, drinking, and merry-being extend into the evening, clutching at Cole's consciousness. The night blurs into bright bursts of blithe beauty, a swirl of shimmering shadows. The dazzling darkness is delightful, but dizzying; it's difficult to grasp specifics surrounded by so much memory. Eventually, Cole wanders away from another game of Wicked Grace to gather his scattered senses in sleep.

Many guests leave come morning; some others linger longer. He watches farewell wishes daily—from a distance—but keeps quiet; whether they will meet again has nothing to do with wistful words. After all, time holds many possibilities, but Cole is not curious; he is content to wait until they come closer.

And so the months meander by. Cullen begins to worry his wife doesn't love him anymore, quietly carrying concern on his shoulders like a cross. Cole tries to reassure him that her head and her heart love him like life, but her body is full, and she can't fit him inside with all the food and future family. (Cullen colors crimson, and snaps at Cole to shut his mouth and mind. It's the first time he's ever caught the Commander cursing.)

The Inquisitor is much more inclusive. When she lets him, he rests his hand on her abdomen and closes his eyes, concentrating, trying to touch the little life within her womb. It does not yet think in thoughts, or even emotions, and to his human heart it is hard to hear, even when he feels a faint and fragile fluttering beneath his fingers.

Three annums pass in this way—Satinalia, First Day, Wintersend—and then, suddenly, it's the night before Summerday, the birth of Bloomingtide. That's when the screaming starts, at the murmur of midnight. Cole rushes to the Inquisitor's room and stands next to her as the Commander goes to fetch the midwives. He speaks slow and steady reassurances through somewhat sad smiles, powerless to purge the pain of parenthood.

He's seen it all before; he's stood by countless bedsides, delivering comfort as the others deliver an infant. Then Cole hears the cry, feels them cut the cord; mother and daughter are divided, just like mother and father nine cycles ago. A crowd, congregated in the courtyard, raises a cheer at the signal of a handmaid; as they lift a happy hymn to the heavens, he hums along.

Their baby is _beautiful_ , all bloody and bawling with every bit of breath. "She is today," whispers Cole, wide-eyed, watching midwives wash and wipe away all signs of struggle. "The close of spring in Skyhold, summer opening like a—like a sweet-scented blossom." Day breaks with his voice, a stream of soft sunshine spilling in.

The Inquisitor smiles exhaustedly, gaze fixed on her girl, and her husband holds her hand. "I swore I wouldn't cry," says Cullen self-consciously, his voice breaking as he bows his head and sniffles, and Cole rests a reassuring palm on his shoulder, smiling widely. But as the precious bundle is brought to her mother's bared breast, his breath catches at the sight he's seen so many times before, and he turns towards the tear-blurred balcony.

Eternity torments him, teases him, tells him tauntingly that it will not take him: Cole cringes, the tide crashing down in a torrential wave. He's certain the years to come will only confirm his conjecture: he will live to see that infant fall into the Fade a wizened old woman. In that moment her long life lies sprawled before him, a lovely line of light leaving Cole's stationary soul behind.

"I want to name her Summer," determines the Inquisitor, drawing him out of dark discoveries: he dares to glance at her suckling daughter, dwelling in the now. The future is far, and the Fade is fickle; it might not fail to find him after all. He must have hope, the way he hands it to the others.

"Don't I get a say?" inquires Cullen mock-crossly, but the composure in his countenance tells Cole he will concede. As the hymn outside winds up to the room, melodies twining like a flowering vine, crowning the child, he tunes out the rest of their quiet conversation and listens to calm contentment all around—the summer-song, soft and subdued, bold and beautiful.

It's _her_.

* * *

The first year passes quickly, though the nights are long and usually sleepless. Cole catches the child's cries through the night, hearing with his heart. But infants think too differently for him to understand what he senses.

It's why he hasn't spent much time around babies before: they feel in needs, and he can't always fix whatever hurt they have. But Cole comes to see Summer anyway, when the nursemaid's drowsing as dawn approaches. He stares down at her silently and thinks he's on the verge of comprehension, but always has to leave before it clicks. They might think he's up to some mischief.

During the day, he's safer. Sometimes the nursemaid lets Cole hold Summer, so he sings her song, swaying and spinning slowly and then swiftly: she smiles and squeals. He's so close to her, within reach of realization, but then he has to hand her back, and he loses it again.

But soon it's Summerday again, Summer's day, and the universe shifts once more. He holds her, bouncing in place on the balcony, watching her observe the bright blue sky with bold brown eyes. A breeze blends with birdsong and stirs blonde hair. Then she reaches up, beaming, grasping for the edge of Cole's cap. "Ha'," she smiles.

"That's right," he tells her, blinking at their new bridge, built on the brim of his hat. He closes his eyes and fumbles for her heart, finding it unlocked at last, full of freedom and fulfillment. Summer is starting to see sense in this world, word by broken word, emotions evolving with every foreign feeling felt. They are not alone anymore.

* * *

Two and a half years later, the Inquisitor enters her endless rest… too early. It's a more painful pregnancy this time, and the birth more brutal still: Cole expects this end from the beginning, but he says nothing. Let Cullen be the one to hold her as they sleep together, as they laugh together, as she slips away alone. He is no healer, or at least, not enough to bring her back: he detaches, deflecting disquiet, and dotes on their daughter instead.

Cole sits in silence with warm and restless Summer squirming in his lap, feeling the Fade flicker and flutter. Blinding white burns his eyes suddenly; he lowers his cap to shield them from the silent snow with a sigh and a shiver. Cole clutches Summer close to counteract the cruel winter clawing at the windows, at his core.

She knows something's wrong as she watches the way he writhes inside, and her eyes widen. "Where's Mother?" she wonders, high voice hoarse, and at the sweet sound of Summer's innocence, his throat tightens along with his hold on her. Cloudy thoughts threaten to burst; what will happen to the Inquisition now? Will he still be welcome here, or will they cast him out with her memory?

He does not notice the tears until Summer wipes them away, reaching up to caress his cheek in childish compassion—so like his previous persona. She offers no further questions, and he gives no answers; they simply cry together in quiet contemplation of all that could have been, until unconsciousness claims them and they lie curled in their chair.

They learn later that Cullen's son survived: Evan, _young fighter_ : the boy who fought and killed his mother to make his mark. Though Cole forgives the faultless child for his fate, he never forgets that his world was far warmer before the bloody battle of his birth.

Without the Inquisitor, the others tolerate, but do not trust; they begin to see the toll time does not take, and shut their hearts to him, refusing his assistance. Cassandra does what she can to curb excess caution, as the Inquisitor's assigned replacement, but she too is skeptical; she will not let him see her secretly suspicious soul.

But he knows nonetheless. Cole is considered a demon on his bad days, or a spirit on his good days—never human, even with experiences and emotions to call his own. More than once he thinks of leaving, but he can't find the will to abandon what little he knows, however horrible. Not _yet_ , because Summer needs him, or perhaps he needs her.

Because Summer keeps the cold away.

* * *

"All ye, all ye, all come free!"

Another couple years have come and gone, and Summer has become a different brand of Seeker than Cassandra. Everyone may be _able_ to see him now, but that doesn't mean they _do_. She sings the nonsense words again, more impatiently, and the concealed Cole rises reluctantly from the barrels just behind her.

His appearance is met with chilly charges of unfairness, as usual. The children constantly carry a certain careless callousness, born from the warnings given them from the beginning. (Don't socialize with that scheming sort-of-spirit, a demon of destruction in disguise. Summer belongs in a Circle; if only the Divine hadn't dissolved them…)

Caustic canards course through their weary blood, but they bear the bitter burden together. "Cole isn't my _pet_ ," shouts Summer in response to the standard accusation, fists furled, head held high, bright brown eyes flashing with energy. It's more than anyone's done to defend him since the Inquisitor's death. "He's a person!"

A derisive murmur sweeps through the diminutive crowd at her heated declaration, and Cole takes a slow step back. Far be it from him to interfere with an afternoon of friendly fun; it's enough for him to see Summer enjoy herself, even at a distance. Perhaps _especially_ at a distance, during these darker days, lest she be tainted too much by association.

"What's all this fuss?" asks Cullen, coming into view with a hand resting on the hilt of his sword; whether due to instinct or for show, Cole never knows. "Is there a problem?" he continues, and there's a dangerous yet amused undercurrent to his tone, as always. No one declares their complaints to the Commander, not even Summer, so he shakes his head and walks away, muttering something under his breath.

There's a moment of restless silence, during which Cole debates scuttling away; it wouldn't be the first time he's risked Summer's wrath through retreating. He doesn't belong with them, the same way he doesn't belong with anyone else; they all make that abundantly clear.

"I lost too," announces Summer stubbornly, crossing her arms just like her father, blonde hair hanging long and tangled down her back. "But Cole's played hide-and-seek _forever_. It's not his fault he's better." She peers at him with pride in her eyes, and he feels a peculiar pang as the children purse their lips. "Right?"

Cole nods uncertainly; he hasn't yet told her he's only half human, and he doesn't mean elf-blooded. For now, the truth weighs heavier than his guilt; Summer is the only friend he has, and he doesn't want to lose her to the dream of a demon. It's better if he leaves her to her games—backs away, just like with her mother, so he won't be hurt when she finds out the tales are true.

But Summer catches Cole's wrist and smiles, so he stays.

* * *

Sometimes, he tells her stories.

They're not as good as Varric's, whenever he visits, but Summer seems to enjoy them nonetheless. She listens eagerly, cajoling Cole into continuing—favoring fairytales, fables, or facts about the Fade. She's afraid, but fascinated, focused on the fulfillment offered by fantasies.

For months, nursemaids have insisted she's too old for tales. But Summer knocks on his door before bedtime and asks for them anyway, when they're busy with Evan, because she doesn't believe them. If she was too old for tales, she claims, she'd have no need of the Chant… but she'd be beaten if she said so aloud, so it's their little secret.

Cole paints powerful pictures with pretty words, describing demons and dreams and death in detail; her favorite story is his own, but he tells it like fiction and alters the ending so that he lives out his life like a spirit. More than once he wonders whether she would accept him if she knew the tale was true, even if the real Cole deviated midway through; he dreads the day she discovers that he won't die.

Seven summers, an autumn, half a winter, and most of a night since her song was sung: that's when small feet step softly on the stone outside his room. Cole is still awake when he hears her hammering heartbeat; even now, years since his transformation, it takes him an unbearably long time to succumb to slumber.

He hauls himself out of bed and opens the door before she can even knock; he sees her slender shape shivering in the shadows. "Cole?" asks Summer in a tiny, trembling voice that doesn't suit her at all, tightening her arms around her chest to shut out the icy chill. "Can I come in?"

"Yes," he says simply, stepping aside to let her pass. She sweeps inside, and he closes the door after her to keep out the creeping cold. Silence expands to fill the room, but Cole lets her take her time; if she wants to tell him what's wrong, she will. He sits on the edge of his bed, and Summer clambers up to sit next to him.

"I had a bad dream," she confesses finally, faintly. Her silhouette does not stir to stare up at him; her invisible eyes remain fixed on the floor. "I don't want to talk about it. But I'm too old to cry, so if I tell Nanny…" She trails off, gives a ragged, shuddering sigh, and sniffles exhaustedly.

"They're wrong," Cole tells her, scooting against the wall and pulling the covers over himself; sensing his unspoken invitation, Summer slides in and cuddles up against him. "Nobody is too old to cry." She makes herself comfortable, but Cole can physically feel that she is tense, and can tell when she swallows that her throat is tight with tears.

Hoarsely, he hums a half-remembered hymn, a story unto itself—not Summer's song, but one he plucked from her mother's mind. It carried her through the longest nights, lighting the darkest paths, and it will distract her daughter from distress. Cole feels Summer relax and embraces her gently with his mind and his body, surrounding her with the warm promise of protection.

As his makeshift lullaby ends, she sighs and stirs sleepily, and he smiles slightly and shifts the covers farther up as she nestles her face into his chest. Her presence gives him peace, helping him as much as he helps her; there will be no nightmares for either of them tonight.

* * *

Summer asks for knives on her tenth name-day.

Cole has been careful not to cut things when she's around, but he's not cautious enough: she finds the weapons hidden beneath his bed. She wants to be a warrior, she tells him when the game ends—and trips away, leaving him troubled. Hasn't she seen what war has done, what war can do?

Cullen and Cassandra may not be surprised when she announces that evening that she wants to fight, but they're suspicious… and scared. The Commander's heart has hardened since the death of his dearest, but Cole can still see fear flickering inside when they call him forward, as if to testify.

He's afraid he'll lose Summer just like he lost his wife; winter will wash over his world—so he warns Cole not to show her how. He's conflicted when he hears the orders; her father wants to play the Templar again, it seems, keeping too close an eye on her, misinterpreting her wishes. But they require an answer, so Cole gives one, unable to meet their eyes.

When Summer hears the news the next morning, she runs to his room with tears shimmering in big brown eyes, begging him to let her protect herself, protect her people, protect _him_. If she learns how to use knives, she insists, her father wouldn't have to worry so much. Summer just wants everyone to be safe.

Cole hears her mother's mental murmur in that moment, and bows his head briefly. If he imparts to her his skills, she can help him help the others. He smiles at Summer, and hands her the hilt: _this_ is a hurt he can heal.

(They change their collective mind about letting Cole teach her when she strikes as he instructed, defending Evan and killing a would-be kidnapper two or three years later. That's the second time she crawls into his bed to cry… and the last.)

* * *

And just like that, she's a woman.

He isn't there when Summer begins her bleeding, but he knows the signs even before it starts. Cole can always tell, because it hurts half the people monthly. But their troubles are sourceless, too tightly tangled for him to smooth them out anymore; besides, he's less adept at guessing what they need now, and what they want shifts so suddenly that he's scared of messing up.

In the years after that, she seems somehow shyer, more self-conscious, as her body shifts, gradually changing size and shape. Cole finds himself reluctant to ask what she feels, either with his mind or mouth. It feels _wrong_ , now, to trespass in the sanctuary of her soul, yet the thought of how she looks at him makes him… uncomfortable. Physically. And he can't make sense of the sensation.

Maybe it's because Summer _doesn't_ look at him anymore. Not when he's watching, anyway. Cole has seen these symptoms before, but doesn't believe them this time. Summer doesn't have to settle for someone like him; she could select anyone in Skyhold, and they'd certainly be satisfied. (She was always lovely, but lately it's become more obvious, and in different ways.) No; it must be something else which makes her blush.

Summer sheathes her knives before too long, and with them her wild whimsy; something mysterious, called maturity, tames her. Most often, she keeps to the company of other young ladies; Cole hardly ever encounters her alone anymore. When he does, she leaves quickly but seems regretful, like she wishes their visits could be longer—though nothing visibly restrains her from making it so.

Her transformation troubles him; like Cullen, there is nothing that scares Cole more than the prospect of losing the Summer in his life. The little girl he once called sister is no more; in her place is a stately stranger, and a new set of unfamiliar and frightening feelings follows in her wake.

What, for instance, is this flutter in his flesh whenever he thinks of her? It only appears after her shifting shape solidifies slightly, when she is no longer like a sister but something else, something _more_ , something less defined. Many moon-cycles have come and gone by the time midnight amplifies his heartbeat until it deafens him, drawing a carnal connection between his blood and the new way she bleeds.

It does not tell him what his wish is, or why—only that he wants something more.

* * *

Dancing is more difficult, and demanding, than anticipated; though she's supposed to follow, Summer has to lead him through the complex series of steps as they practice. Open like a flower for the whole court to see, then closed again with eyes on each other—many measured movements, intricate and intimate.

It's the same dance they've done for years; not as elaborate as the Grand Game of the Orlesian court, but labyrinthine nonetheless. Cole has become clumsier around her lately, less confident, and stumbles helplessly through the motions, his every breath accompanied by an apology. It's the most he's said to her in many months.

Summer smiles at him to say he's doing fine, then winces as he steps on her foot again. "You're improving, but that's enough for now," she decides, releasing his hand, and he halts; a somewhat awkward silence spreads between them, and he wonders if she will leave him alone again.

Instead, she suggests, "Let's go get some fresh air," swaying back and forth uncertainly—bright-eyed and beautiful. "The garden is lovely in spring." Sixteen this summer, blossoming like Bloomingtide, so is she: he begins to understand what's wrong. Cole recalls Solas asking if he felt any interest in women; he had not. He remembers The Iron Bull introducing him to Marguerite; she danced, too, but _she_ never made his skin this sensitive. Now, the seasons have changed, and himself with them. With Summer.

Together, they walk into the neglected courtyard; she stops in the center of the stone archway, swinging her arms as if at a loss for what to do with herself. Cole leans against a tree trunk, boughs heavy with buds about to bloom, and—when she still says nothing—takes a chance and looks over at her for what seems like the first time.

Summer is still shorter than him by a foot or more, but then again, she's not done growing yet. Springtime sunlight glances off braided blonde curls, blinding him briefly. Her gentle brown eyes are downcast as if in diffidence, but a fierce fire still burns behind them as she looks up, catching Cole as he considers her fine features. Her cheeks color, and he tries to apologize again, but she speaks first.

"I don't think I've ever asked you what you _are_."

It's not a question, but that doesn't mean she doesn't want an answer, as he has by now learned—yet she does not let him respond. "Some people age well," continues Summer, voice wavering, "but you don't age at _all_. Or eat, or drink." She shakes her head sadly, crossing her arms; an answer, then, is not what she seeks. "I guess I've always known you were different. I just didn't think about it too much until… a couple years ago."

Cole shifts in place uncomfortably and says nothing, because he can feel more words expanding inside her, ready to burst out. "Once, you were like a brother to me," Summer tells him, as if confessing a crime. "I never meant to run away from you like that, but I was… afraid. The kind of fear you can't fix," she clarifies quickly.

He hears her inhale as if to say more, but the breath hitches in her throat, and there is quiet. Cole thinks of all the things he could tell or ask about his heart and hers, but his tongue is frozen in his mouth and will not form the words. His eyes are instead drawn to the motion of deft fingers as Summer fidgets with her blouse, and something unnameable stirs restlessly inside him. "I miss you," she murmurs; Cole doesn't know if he's meant to hear, but her words make him feel warmer.

"I miss you too," he tells her, his voice low; she gives the ghost of a smile, approaching as if cautious. Cole tries to swallow his heart, beating in his throat; curious thoughts scatter as she stands before him, as close as if they were still dancing. "But more than just missing," he endeavors to explain, but something about Summer's proximity is intoxicating; delightful dizziness makes it difficult to think. "I…"

Cole closes his eyes briefly as she kisses him, light and lingering—but it's not enough. As Summer settles back onto her feet, something awakens inside him suddenly, and he grasps her wrist uncertainly. She gasps, but he does not need to look inside her heart to see the excitement shining in her eyes—so their mouths meet once more.

* * *

Three years have passed, full of stolen kisses, like he's snatching something forbidden… but it was _her_ idea.

Tonight will be different; Cole can feel it in his heart and hers, as he opens the door. Something in the way she looks at him, with apprehension and anticipation, makes him think she wants to borrow more than merely his lips this time. He's seen the ritual several times, but is it possible for a pseudo-spirit such as himself to participate…?

Summer smiles at him, sitting slowly on his bed. "I can leave if you like," she sighs softly, shifting slightly, sensually; his heart races, and he swallows. "I know this can't last much longer. I'm your age already, and soon I'll be older." She pauses, glancing down. "But… I'd like a night to remember you by, if it's not too much trouble."

Cole has doubts about whether something so human will make _him_ happy… but if it pleases her, then he will at least see her smile, vibrant and vivacious, before the inevitable end. Yet, though he knows what to do, he does not know how to do it, and frowns as he considers the mysterious mechanics. He hasn't learned much, listening without looking for so many years.

But she misinterprets his expression. "I'm sorry," stammers Summer, getting to her feet self-consciously, wondering where to turn her mortified eyes. "I shouldn't have come. It's a lot to ask of y—" But he reaches out as she passes, catching her shoulder, and she turns towards him again: in her candlelit countenance dwells delight and desperation, desire and distress, demand for a dance of a different kind.

Distracted by a strand of gold, Cole brushes blonde hair out of her blushing face. "You don't have to go," he tells her, his voice less than a whisper, and his mind goes blank as his body takes over: she leans up the last couple inches. Their clumsy kiss soon spills over the edges; tongues twist and turn, tasting temptation. Hot and wet, like what's to come.

The kiss breaks like day, or like hearts, and they breathe briefly into one another. Warmth shivers between them like a mirage; a soft shine in Summer's eyes beckons him forward again, and their fingers busy themselves with clothing. In the back of his mind, Cole is somewhat surprised the spell works so well on him; his body no longer seems like a shell for him to inhabit. He _is_ his body now, or at least more so, and it will make them both happy if he gives himself to her.

So he falls and she catches him, or maybe she's the one falling; it doesn't matter anymore. This is what it means to be human: focused on the physical, able to trespass everywhere but her heart. There's a prick of pain, but the harm and the help are the same: passionate pushing and pulling, trailing tingling touches, until it's over. Then it's like bleeding, but all at once, a flickering feeling like finding and losing the same part of himself at the same time. They share something between a sigh and a smile, a gasp and a grimace, and are still.

Yet, though Cole hears his name whispered on gratified lips, he does not say hers.

* * *

He awakens before the sun, farewell festering like a feeling in his gut.

Sitting up slowly, he sees Summer's silhouette tangled in his covers, and smiles sadly. Her position is precarious; she's made of glass, gleaming in his glow: he can't bear the thought of seeing her shatter, fragments glimmering. Whether this is love or not, he must not stay to find out; leaving will be difficult, but distance is best. If he stays, he will witness the winter; if he leaves, he will move on, maintaining merry memories.

Once, Cole believed he would lose his friends if he changed, but he's since discovered that it's far more complicated than that. He'll lose them because _they_ change, while he remains the same for as long as the Fade flares within him—stagnant, suffering. Cole can't make them all forget him anymore, but they will not miss him. Even Summer is satisfied in her sleep, and she will subdue the sorrow in time. With optimism will come opportunities for them both: along his long and winding road, he will help who he can, and be happy.

Cole dresses in the dark, dons his hat, and opens the door. He leaves no note of either explanation or apology, nor does he kiss her goodbye for fear of waking her; he only takes a last look back at his bed, bows his head in grief or gratitude, and walks away.


End file.
